


It's a Matter of Perspective

by cataclysmofstars



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Gen, Implied Violence, mental deterioration, russingon if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 18:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12587592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cataclysmofstars/pseuds/cataclysmofstars
Summary: Before him, freedom lies. If only he keeps going, surely he'll reach it.





	It's a Matter of Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the Tumblr Pen Dips prompt: There are stairs. An endless, winding well of stairs, going up and up and up. And I can’t get out.

He knows, by some fleeting shred of logic and sanity buried deep, that it is folly.

This does not, however, dissuade him.

It is with him in both the waking and the unconscious—there is no such thing as true sleep here—in the mania and the ever-shortening lucid moments (although he cannot truly distinguish between the two anymore).

The stairs unfurl in an endless fractal above his head, and no matter how long he tracks their path, each time they are swallowed into the darkness.

He cannot tear his gaze away, though. A gap of light pulsates there, a mere pin’s head in length across, and it is enough. It beckons. There is a tug in his _fëa _, an insistence that drives him well nigh to madness if he turns away.__

____

____

He climbs.

_the stones beneath his feet raze like fangs and drink of his lifeblood with relish— ___

____

____

The stairs are whirling, heaving, roiling with impatience. They bear down upon his chest and it is so hard to breathe. He hastens onward.

There is not much time, though he cannot recall why.

_something fractures, deep inside, and he stumbles, buckles against the steps ___

____

____

_blood speckles his hands and hacks its way up his throat to drool on the floor ___

____

____

(he must hurry)

There are two sets of eyes, one of molten fire-gold and one of scalding ice (like the knives that peel back his skin), and the cruel twist of lips that croon venom and hurt into his ears, but each time he looks up, it is there.

The winding stairs—

If he could just take that next step—

(but he is so tired and his limbs are so heavy)

His legs bear the weight of mountains and there is a tidal roar in his ears, and something hot and viscous slicks down his back to the stone and he slips…

_he cannot remember the how or why, and so he presses on ___

____

____

The light is there, at the center, waiting. It’s right there. He merely has to reach it, and then all will be well.

Because he knows, he knows, that beyond it is everything: his father and brothers whole and hale, the Black Foe cast down and, further still, an elf, dark mane entwined with gold thread, reaching out—

Coldness encapsulates his wrist, bites through rot and ragged flesh. His shoulder wrenches under his weight, but that image is burned behind his eyelids.

There is nothing but the staircase, nothing but the light, nothing but the world past it.

And Maedhros keeps climbing.


End file.
